Read Chapter 27: The Informant's Price

The knife pressed against Edward’s throat was cold, impossibly cold, as if Abberline had pulled it from the Thames itself. The inspector’s breath came steady against Edward’s ear—too steady for a man who had just taken a suspect at knifepoint. This was not panic. This was purpose.

“You’ve been busy, Mr. Graves,” Abberline said, his voice low, almost conversational. “Forging letters. Naming killers. Playing God with my investigation.”

“You read my confession,” Edward managed, his throat working against the blade. “Then you know—”

“I know you’re a liar.” Abberline’s free hand clamped onto Edward’s shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. “I know you’ve been feeding me fabricated nonsense for months while a real killer walks free. And I know that tonight, you brought a woman into a trap and called it a plan.”

From somewhere deeper in the warehouse, Edward heard a muffled sound—Mary. The gag, the struggle. He tried to turn his head, and the knife bit into his skin. A warm trickle of blood traced down his neck.

“Let me go,” Edward said. “Graves is still in there. He has her. She’ll die if we stand here arguing.”

Abberline laughed, a dry sound, like paper folding. “She’s already dead, Mr. Graves. The moment you involved her. The moment you involved anyone.” He shifted, and the pressure of the blade eased just enough for Edward to breathe. “But you’re right. We shouldn’t stand here arguing. I have questions. And you have answers I’ve been waiting for.”

“Ask them,” Edward said. “Quickly.”

“Where did you get the police reports?” Abberline’s voice sharpened. “The ones that matched the killer’s movements. The ones in your letters.”

The question caught Edward off guard. “What?”

“My men found your correspondence,” Abberline said. “The early letters, before you got clever. They referenced crime-scene details that were never released. Details only the killer—or the police—could know. So I’ll ask once more. Where did you get them?”

Edward’s mind raced. He hadn’t written those details. He’d fabricated the letters from newspaper accounts and his own imagination. The accuracy of some descriptions had been—he’d assumed—lucky guesses. But the inspector was telling him otherwise.

“I didn’t,” Edward said. “I never had access to police files. I made it all up.”

Abberline was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he withdrew the knife. Edward felt the cold air rush against his skin where the blade had been.

“Then someone fed you the details,” Abberline said, “and made you think you were inventing them.”

Edward turned. The inspector stood before him, a lamplit silhouette, the knife hanging loose at his side. His face was unreadable, carved from stone and fatigue. Behind him, in the shadows of the warehouse, Edward could see the faint outline of Mary—bound to a pillar, her eyes wide above the gag.

“Inspector,” Edward said, “Graves is still here. He has her. Whatever you want from me, we can do it after she’s safe.”

Abberline’s gaze flicked to Mary, then back to Edward. “Graves left ten minutes ago. He took the confession I was supposed to receive. He knows I’m here alone, discredited, with nothing but my own suspicions.”

“Then why are you here?” Edward demanded.

“Because I was told to be here.” Abberline pocketed the knife. “Word came through a constable I trust. A message, supposedly from you, telling me to meet at this warehouse at midnight. It bore your name, your handwriting, and details only you could know.” He paused. “I came expecting to arrest you. Instead, I found a man holding a woman at knifepoint, who slipped away the moment I drew my weapon.”

Edward’s stomach dropped. “I didn’t send that message.”

Abberline’s eyes narrowed. “Then who did?”

The answer surfaced from the dark well of Edward’s suspicions—Sam. The fence who had sold his drafts. The man who claimed to be an ally but who had always been present at the edges, watching. Sam had known about the warehouse. Sam had known about the letter to Abberline. Sam had been the only person, other than Sarah and Mary, who knew the details of Edward’s plan.

“Sam,” Edward said aloud. “The fence. He sold my letters to Graves.”

Abberline’s expression flickered—not surprise, but confirmation. “The fence on Leman Street. Works out of a pawnshop near the docks.”

“You knew?”

“I suspected.” Abberline’s jaw tightened. “He’s been seen in Graves’s company. But I couldn’t prove it, and I never had enough to lean on him.”

Edward was already moving toward the warehouse doors, his mind turning. Mary was free—she had slipped her bonds and was stumbling toward them. Abberline caught her as she reached them, steadying her while she tore at the gag.

“He’s gone,” Mary gasped, her voice raw. “Edmund—he said he had something to show you. Something he’s been building for weeks. He said you’d know where to find him, when you were ready.”

Edward looked at Abberline. “The docks?”

Abberline shook his head. “He could be anywhere. He’s not stupid enough to wait for us to bring the whole force down on him.”

Mary grabbed Edward’s wrist, her fingers cold. “He said he’d make it public. The letters, the forgeries, all of it. He said if you didn’t come to him, he’d find a way to fade into the crowds and start again, with a new name, a new face. But he wants you to see it first. His work.”

Edward pried her fingers loose. “Get her somewhere safe,” he told Abberline. “I know who to talk to.”

“Who?” Abberline demanded.

But Edward was already running, out of the warehouse and into the sooty darkness of St. Katharine Docks, his boots echoing on the cobbles.

Sam’s pawnshop sat on a narrow lane off Leman Street, wedged between a chandler’s and a shuttered gin house. The windows were dark, the door bolted. Edward didn’t bother knocking. He found the alley behind the building, the loose board he’d seen Sam use weeks ago, and pried it open with his penknife.

The shop’s interior smelled of dust, damp wool, and rust. Edward moved through the maze of stacked furniture and hanging coats, following the faint glow of a candle from the back room. Sam sat at a table, a ledger open before him, a glass of whiskey at his elbow. He didn’t look up when Edward entered.

“Thought you’d be coming,” Sam said, turning a page. “Figured you’d find your way through the back. Heard you’re not so good with front doors.”

Edward crossed the room and slammed his hands on the table, sending the ledger skittering. Sam flinched, but recovered quickly, his beady eyes finding Edward’s face.

“You sold me out,” Edward said. “You sold my letters to Graves.”

Sam took a slow sip of whiskey. “Sold is a strong word. I owed him a favor from years back. He called it in.”

“What kind of favor?”

Sam set the glass down. “I was in Newgate in ’78. Small matter of receiving stolen goods. Graves was a clerk at the Home Office—he pulled some strings, got my sentence reduced. Said I’d owe him one day.” He shrugged. “That day come.”

Edward wanted to hit him. The urge was physical, a heat in his fists. But he’d learned long ago that violence only bought silence, not answers.

“He’s taken Mary,” Edward said. “He’s going to make her his next ‘work.’ And he’s going to use my letters to frame me for it.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “I know.”

“And you don’t care.”

“I care about one thing, and that’s not being dragged into a murder investigation,” Sam said. “Graves is dangerous. You’re dangerous. I just want to be left alone.”

Edward leaned in. “Then give me something. Where is he going to do it? What’s his plan?”

Sam’s eyes flickered to a drawer in the table. Then, slowly, he pulled it open and removed a brass key, worn and tarnished, looped onto a piece of string.

“There’s a lock-up on Wapping High Street,” Sam said. “Number twelve. Graves has been using it for weeks. Bought it off a ship’s chandler under a fake name. I heard him talking about a ‘masterpiece.’ Something he wants to show you, Edward. Something to prove that your fiction is nothing compared to his reality.”

Edward took the key. It was warm from the drawer, heavy in his palm. “Why are you giving me this?”

Sam’s face was unreadable. “Because if I don’t, you’ll bring the inspector down on me. And because—maybe—I don’t want to see what he does to her.” He paused. “Meet him at the docks at midnight. That’s what he said. He wants an audience.”

Edward pocketed the key. “This doesn’t clear your debt, Sam.”

“I know.” Sam picked up his glass again. “But it’s the best I can do. Now get out of my shop before I change my mind.”

Edward left the way he came, squeezing through the loose board and into the alley. The night air was cold, bitter with smoke and river fog. He stood for a moment, the key pressing against his thigh through the fabric of his coat.

Midnight. The docks. A lock-up on Wapping High Street.

He had a few hours, a key, and nothing else but the certainty that Graves had been waiting for this moment—the moment when Edward’s creation became real enough to destroy him.

Edward looked up at the sky, but there was nothing to see. Just the black weight of the city above him, pressing down.

He started walking.